There was only one reason I wanted that truck.

As if Melody would want to ride in that rusted POS instead of Clark Richards’s snowy white Jeep – the one he got for his sixteenth birthday, a year ago. I’d heard him bragging about what Melody had done with him in the backseat of that Jeep, and his words made me furious and harder than hell. Furious because he shouldn’t share that shit with a bunch of dumbasses around a fire on the beach. Hard because I wanted her to do those things with me.

Kicking the arm off a cactus as I stepped from the road into the yard earned me a sharp spine right through the toe of my black Vans. ‘Ow! Fuck!’

That was when I noticed Grandpa’s truck parked next to the house. Along with Dad’s SUV.

The front door was unlocked, although that could just be Grandpa forgetting to lock it. Dad and he had gone round and round about security and leaving the house unlocked – Grandpa insisting that he’d never locked the damn house in all his damn years of living there, and Dad insisting that it was no longer 1950.

When some out-of-towners broke into Wynn’s Garage and stole an assload of tools, Grandpa conceded, sullenly. Sometimes he forgot to lock up, though.

‘Grandpa?’ I called, shutting the door behind me.

The interior of the house was dim after the bright, cloudless afternoon outside, even when I pulled off my sunglasses. At first, I didn’t register that Dad was sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands grasped between his knees. He was staring at the threadbare rug under his feet.

He was hardly ever home this early in the afternoon, and if he was, he was working at the table, not sitting on the sofa. I frowned. ‘Dad?’

He didn’t move a muscle. Didn’t look at me. ‘Come sit down, Landon.’

My heart thudded, the pace escalating slowly like an engine warming up. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ I dropped my backpack to the floor, but didn’t sit. ‘Dad?’

He looked up at me, then. His eyes were dry, but red. ‘Your grandfather had a heart attack on the boat this morning –’

‘What? Where is he? Is he in the hospital? Is he okay?’

Dad shook his head. ‘No, son.’ His voice was gentle and quiet. I felt like he’d struck me with the unyielding words, sharp and irrevocable. ‘It was a massive attack. He went quickly –’

‘No.’ I backed away from him, swallowing thick tears. ‘Goddammit, NO.’ Retreating to my room, I slammed the door and didn’t come out until after Dad went to bed.

Barefoot, I padded into Grandpa’s room – lit with the moonlight streaming through the half-open curtains. My fingers trailed over the items resting on his night table: reading glasses folded on top of a leather-bound Bible and a copy of Leaves of Grass, a half-full glass of water, a Timex watch with a scratched face, laid flat. On his dresser was a stack of folded shirts and a faded photo of my grandmother, holding a baby – my dad. The frame was old, tarnished and bent on one corner.

In the kitchen, I took a lidded container of cold macaroni and cheese from the fridge and ate it without heating it first.

The funeral was short and sparsely attended – Dad, me, a group of old-timers and a few other fishermen Grandpa knew, who’d been friends and neighbours. Dad wore the one suit he’d kept – still sharp and perfectly tailored, though it hung a little looser on him than it had the last time he’d worn it, at Mom’s funeral. He’d lost weight. He was more muscular, but also gaunter. I didn’t have a suit and didn’t have time to get one, so I wore a black henley and black jeans for the service.

He was buried next to the wife who died thirty years before him. Ramona Delilah Maxfield – Beloved Wife and Mother, her headstone read. I wondered what Dad had ordered carved into my grandfather’s marker, but I didn’t ask.

The next day, Dad gave me two things from my grandfather: a heavy brass pendant with a Celtic symbol that supposedly represented the Maxfield name prior to the twelfth century, and the key to the old Ford truck.

I transferred the symbol, enlarged, to a sketch. I would have Arianna ink it on my side, at the edge of my rib cage. I slid the Ford key on to the ring holding my house key and a compass.

I had the truck I’d wanted, a thousand-year-old symbol of my heritage, a secret recipe for brownies, a pocketknife and memories of my grandfather I’d have never had without the loss of my mother.

I couldn’t make sense of these things or their value to me, when every one of them was linked to the loss of something I didn’t want to lose.

LUCAS

I arrived as Heller was collecting the quizzes. As I slid into my seat, he asked to see me after class.

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered, working to keep my gaze from sliding to Jacqueline, who was eavesdropping none too subtly, head angled, chin at her shoulder. My breath went shallow, knowing he could say one sentence – hell, one word – Landon – that would tell her who I was.

I wanted her to know.

And I didn’t.

She didn’t look my way again until the end of class, when I’d moved down front. As Heller answered a student’s question, I took the opportunity to find Jacqueline in the mass of exiting students, but she was still in her seat. Looking at me.

Her eyes were dark, due to the distance between us and shadows cast by overhead lights. I couldn’t make out the perfect blue I knew they were. I couldn’t smell her sweet scent. She wasn’t laughing or even smiling. She was just a pretty girl.

But I couldn’t see anyone else.